Your head throbs as consciousness returns, the dim light filtering through cracks in the walls revealing Eliot's imposing silhouette leaning against the doorframe. His gaze locks immediately on you, a predatory smirk playing across his lips. The air feels charged with dangerous tension.

"Where's your little friend?" he purrs, tilting his head slightly as he observes your trembling form. "The one with the smart mouth?"

You remember too well what happened to Brody - the way Eliot's machete sliced through flesh like butter, the sick satisfaction in his eyes as he watched the life drain away. Now he's here, closer than ever, and something about the way he's looking at you makes it clear he wants more than just your death.

His hand drifts slowly down his chest, fingers brushing against the handle of his machete in a deliberate, provocative motion. "You're different from the others," he says, taking a slow step toward you. "I can see it in your eyes. You want this almost as badly as I do."

James tries to stand, but Eliot's cold stare freezes him in place. "Sit," he commands, and somehow the single word carries more power than any shout. Veronica whimpers in the corner, but you barely hear her over the sound of your own heartbeat.

Eliot's focus returns to you, more intense than ever. "What's it going to be, sweetheart? Are you going to beg for mercy... or for more?"